


Ghivasha

by Lobo_Loca



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: BAMF Bilbo, Bella (OC) - Freeform, Dwarf Culture, Dwobbits, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Hobbit Culture, Minor Violence, Mpreg, Racial prejudice, minor sexism, who grow up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3379838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobo_Loca/pseuds/Lobo_Loca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo attempts to raise and care for his daughter as best he can, even if that means twelve years among Elves, letting her apprentice under a silversmith in Ered Luin, getting Nori to spy on her, and then travelling all the way to a mountain of Dwarfs to beat the crap out of a Dwarf who dares to disrespect his daughter. Crossposted on ff.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghivasha

She draws her first breath on Durin’s Day in a room of Elvish healers. Her sire would be beyond appalled, but he is a world and two realms away, as Bilbo, exhausted after nearly a full day of labour, holds her close and whispers love into delicately pointed ears too young to understand. He tells the Elves to call her Bella, after his mother, but once they’re alone, he names her, in the fashion of her sire’s people. He names her Ghivasha, because she will become the greatest treasure he will ever lay eyes on, all the gold and gems in Erebor be damned. He records her birth on a certificate, and sends a copy ahead to the Thain, so that the necessary changes can be made to his will and so that Bella will be added to the Baggins and Took family trees.

However, Bilbo is in no hurry home. The Shire holds nothing for him anymore, except the vaguest memories of his parents and a few dozen relatives that care more about the state of Bag End than the state of his health. Such is no place to raise a child, and the Elves are friendly enough with their great reverence for children of any species. It helps, perhaps, that Hobbit fauntlings are one of the most adorable beings in all of Middle-Earth.

They stay among the Elves for several seasons, as Bella’s hair grows into unruly honey-gold curls, and her eyes remain a glacial blue-green, though Bilbo worries about her growth. She is larger than most Hobbit fauntlings, but she grows slowly, where he is used to periodic spurts. The Elves assure him such development is normal in Dwarrows, but he remains sceptical. Half-Hobbits, rare as they are, have fared between incredibly success and mostly Hobbity or extremely frail and grotesquely deformed, prone to death within the first ten years. She is a well-formed lass, though, and begins speaking before a year, first in the Common tongue, and then in Sindarin. Their hosts are ecstatic, and so is he to an extent, but he starts teaching her stilted, rudimentary Khuzdul and Iglishmêk whenever they are unobserved. Bilbo teaches Bella her other name as well, but she will not understand the implications for many, many years. She calls him Papa, and sometimes _Adad_ when they are alone. He gently breaks her of the latter habit, because he has no right to that title, and he will not tell her about her sire, her real _adad_ , unless she asks.

Bella is a precocious child as well, often found tottering in places she shouldn’t, such as the kitchens, and can often be found with her head stuck under someone’s robes or skirts without anyone realizing more often than not. Luckily, that phase ends once Bella starts trailing after Lord Elrond’s daughter. At Lady Arwen’s knee, Bella learns to be a fine young lady, even if she finds propriety utterly boring. She takes up the harp, and Bilbo nearly cries the first time she plays for him, because she reminds him so much of her sire as careful fingers pluck at taut strings, and a small smile steals across her face. They teach her Elvish and Hobbit songs, and the few Dwarf ones that Bilbo remembers from a journey fraught with peril more than music. He doesn’t tell her that though, only that the songs are part of her heritage. By the time Bella is twelve, half the songs have different rhythms and lyrics, but he thinks her sire would’ve liked the variation, and that this is the heirloom she will pass on to her children.

Overall, Bella is a happy child and slow to angry or upset. Not that there is much that might upset her in Rivendell, when the Elves fall over themselves to earn a smile or make her giggle. She doesn’t smile or giggle, though, when Bilbo makes the decision to leave Rivendell and return to the Shire. She is silent the entire, blessedly uneventful, journey, and makes no comment on the uproar they cause among their fellow Hobbits. Bella does, however, take exception to the Sackville-Bagginses squatting in Bag End. She may be only a tween of thirteen, but, Eru have mercy, she can swing an axe just as well as a Dwarf six times her age. While torn between pride and horror, Bilbo is glad to have his home free of thieving relatives.

The residents of Hobbiton pay them no mind after that, except for the kindly Gamgees, and the rambunctious Brandybucks and Tooks who have tweens the same age as Bella. The lot of them are the most well-mannered hellions the Shire’s ever known under Bella’s leadership, but that doesn’t stop them from having adventures in the woods. After one too many skirts damaged beyond repair, Bella dons trousers and never stops, not even for festivals and parties. One Midsummer’s Eve, she is twenty, young, wild and free, and lets Dreppi Foxburr kiss her behind the party tree. Bilbo doesn’t approve of the match in the least, but he concedes that Bella can handle herself. Especially after she gives the Foxburr boy a sound thumping when he commands her to start wearing skirts, stop adventuring, and prepare for life shackled to a hearth like he has any right. None of the other Shire boys come calling after that, but Bella doesn’t seem to mind. Bilbo arranges for her to apprentice under the blacksmith in Bree anyhow, and Bella falls in love with the forge.

She starts with mending pots and farm tools, but quickly makes her way into maces, swords, and shields. Soon enough, Bree’s townsfolk favour Bella’s craftsmanship over her master’s, and he has nothing left to teach his apprentice after only four years. The lass is understandably put out, and broaches the possibility of apprenticing under the Dwarrows in Ered Luin with Bilbo. He is firm in his denial, but promises to send her off with his best wishes once she reaches majority in eight years. Bella holds him to that promise, and Bilbo waves her off on a warm, bright Durin’s Day with a gift of hard leather boots stuffed in her saddlebags. Bilbo is thankful that Gandalf is escorting her, even if the Wizard does look like a deranged vagabond.

The first of many letters arrives two days later, and he chuckles at the complaints about riding on ponies, skipping meals, and Gandalf. The letters slowly transition into descriptions about the mountainous and delicately sculpted landscapes of Ered Luin, and questions about Dwarfish culture. He answers as best he can because, despite the rumours those damned Sackville-Baggins keep spreading, his experience with Dwarfish culture was short, and not nearly as in-depth as he would’ve preferred. But he is not without Dwarf friends, and he sends a raven to Erebor with the questions he cannot answer on his own. Of course, this means Bella gets her answers a bit late, but she manages to charm a silversmith into accepting her as an apprentice without any trouble.

Bella glosses over her Master silversmith Rolir entirely in her letters, instead focusing on the aspects of her new craft. The Dwobbit—though, she will never, ever hear that word fall from Bilbo’s lips—delights in the delicate work, though she takes no real interest in the shiny, beautiful end products. Bella is gone for nearly a year  before she sends back a sample of her work. Bilbo laughs himself out of a chair when he realizes the links of the necklace are tiny spoons, and proudly presents it to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins on his birthday, much to the amusement of everyone except the Sackville-Bagginses. His daughter whines about missing the event, and promises to be back next year with earrings in the shape of salad forks; he has never been prouder.

The autumn is colder than usual, and Bilbo sends word to Gandalf and the Rangers in hope of having protectors in the Shire in case of another Fell Winter. He is surprised beyond belief when five Dwarrows arrive on his doorstep, including a rather small librarian with a rather large war hammer and a burly guard with a shaved head full of tattoos. They stay the uneventful winter at Bag End, and wait until late spring to head back to Erebor. Bilbo manages to avoid answering any and all awkward questions directed his way about his sudden re-interest in Dwarfish culture from Ori and, surprisingly enough, Dwalin. They leave none the wiser, and the persons of Hobbiton don’t mention the Dwarrows, lest superstition and burning ears bring them back. When Bella arrives back in mid-September, she is completely unaware of any visiting Dwarrows who may’ve been very interested in her existence.

Bilbo isn’t sure if the guilt he feels over that is justified or not, but he puts it aside and enjoys the time he has with his daughter, as she rants and raves about her fellow apprentices and the beauty of finely crafted silver. Bella tells him about her friends Bolin and Tesil, and the pompous goldsmith apprentice Loifur who is the greatest bastard in all of Middle-Earth, but is a damn fine craftsman. Bilbo loses count of all the new profanity his sweet, mild-mannered child has accumulated over the last two years, but he can’t say he minds, not when it scandalizes every eavesdropping Sackville-Baggins that tries to steal their silver spoons, and reminds Bilbo of thirteen Dwarrows whose profanity had known no bounds at times.

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins turns a rather spectacular shade of red when Bilbo proudly presents her with the salad fork earrings, especially when she discovers the Khuzdul on the back. She doesn’t know it, but the runes are supposed to ward off petty thieves, specifically those who steal silverware. Bella beams proudly and laughs when that horrid Hobbit woman stomps off in a huff, and Gandalf chuckles around his pipe as he sets off his whiz poppers. The fireworks are in the shape of dancing Dwarrows and dazzling fire-drakes, but they hold little interest for Bilbo, after having seen the real things in person. Bella is giddy though, as she points out the flaws and missteps of the brightly coloured Dwarfish apparitions. The fauntlings persuade her to tell them tales about Dwarrows and Ered Luin, and Bella goes off on a tangent about the elaborate celebrations held on Durin’s Day that ensnares the little gaggle of youngsters. Soon though, the mothers come to collect their tired children who whine and plea for just one more story, turning large, hopeful eyes towards the unknowing Dwobbit lass. It surprises no one when Bag End becomes overrun with fauntlings. Bilbo embraces the loss of silence with open arms, and lots of baking.

But September is gone all too soon, and Bella once again heads to Ered Luin, though this time she leaves with enough food to feed a Dwarfish army. Her letters become infrequent as she transitions from apprentice to journeyman silversmith, though no less descriptive. Loifur features prominently, though never in a particularly favourable light, but mentions of another Dwarf lad makes it into Bella’s letters.

Bifi is apparently the son of an Ered Luin merchant, and often hangs around Rolir’s shop, and the tavern Bella sometimes frequented with her fellow silversmiths, and near the quarter where Bella rents lodgings. Bilbo reads each letter with growing trepidation, though all he does is send back carefully worded questions about his daughter’s relationship with this new Dwarf. After Dreppi Foxburr, he’d promised to stay out of Bella’s love life, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t worry and fret. Bagginses are worriers and fretters after all, and if a Baggins doesn’t worry and fret, especially over their children and family, then they aren’t a Baggins at all! But, as a Took, Bilbo is not above toeing the line a little, and asks a favour of an old friend to keep an eye on Bella, though he doesn’t mention that she’s anything more than a simple relation.

Nori’s first report is vague, simple background details on Bifi. Nothing is inherently alarming, but Bilbo knows better than to judge a Dwarf by their braids. The Dwarves of Ered Luin have no great love of Hobbits—more a sense of pity for such frail and small creatures who owned no weapons. Still, there is little deterring unsavoury Dwarrows from attempting to take advantage of Bella, and Bilbo will run through any one who dares to hurt his beloved daughter. (His company of Dwarrows rubbed off on him more then they will ever know, which Bilbo is both immensely grateful for and utter despairing of.) The second report is more in depth, reviews of Bifi’s character and interactions with peoples other than Dwarrows. The lad appears to be of a respectable manner, even if there is a rather proudly written mention of an unfavourable encounter with an Elf near Rivendell. Bilbo makes a note of it, unwilling to give either party the benefit of the doubt just yet, but also unwilling to assign blame.

)

Three months go by without another report, but Bilbo doesn’t think much of it until he comes home one day from market to find a Dwarfish thief in his sitting room. He barely manages not to up end his basket of eggs, but he does drop two of the cheese wheels. Nori just grins, laughing as the Hobbit spits Dwarfish curses and stores his groceries in the larder.

“Not that I mind the company,” Bilbo starts, taking one look at the well-travelled cloak hung on his coat rack and resolving to make a hearty luncheon, “but what exactly was important enough for you to come all the way to the Shire from Ered Luin?”

Nori shrugs. “It’s amazing how much you can observe from a far, but you miss the most crucial things unless you get close.”

Bilbo refuses to stiffen at the veiled accusation, and instead makes an absent, noncommittal hum, as he starts on preparing food for his guest. Nori, however, is nothing if not stubborn and insatiably curious once his interest has been piqued.

“How exactly are you related to this Bella lass again?” the Dwarf asked lightly. “Mother’s side, didn’t you say? Wild as a Took?”

Bilbo hummed softly, bending down to light the wood stacked under the stove. He winces a little when he straights, knees and back creaking faintly in his old age. The look Nori gives him is sympathetic and a tinge melancholy, and the Hobbit resists the urge to roll his eyes. Really, those Dwarrows are so overdramatic, getting all emotional every time they remember that Bilbo won’t make it past 100 in all likelihood.

Still, Nori isn’t about to be deterred by a little sentimentalism.

“How do Hobbits look upon interracial marriages?” he asks, body language carefully relaxed and open. It’s clearly an invitation to speak, to spill any secrets the Hobbit has kept close to his chest for far too long.

Bilbo doesn’t look at Nori as he replies, “Tuckborough might welcome them, but the rumours and shunning would no doubt carryover for some of the more respectable families.” He fusses with his pots for a moment before choosing one. “Some of the nastier ones might try to disinherit the spouse eventually, and any heirs from the union.”

“So Bella—”

“Is nothing more than a Hobbit lass who ages well enough to give Old Took a run for his money,” Bilbo cuts in shortly. Nori’s eyebrows disappear into his fringe, but Bilbo ignores him. “Aye, perhaps she’s a bit odd, so few Hobbits like working with metal, but if I hear you spreading that nonsense, I will make sure it gets back to Dori.”

The thief’s face is stunned for a moment, before sympathetic realization blooms. Bilbo hates that look, the one that had finally driven him out of Rivendell because it was the only expression the Elves would bestow upon him, and he ignores it as he starts peeling potatoes.

He has no use for sympathy or pity, and has no desire for it. He has Bella, and she is nothing but the most gracious blessing an unworthy wretch such as himself could receive.

“She’s yours.” Nori waits a breath, probably hoping for some kind of explanation, but continues on, “You could’ve told us.”

Bilbo sets down his knife, perhaps a bit too forcefully from the way it bounces and clangs against the cutting board, so he’s not tempted to throw it. The last thing he needs is to be known as the first Hobbit to ever commit manslaughter. “How, Nori? How am I supposed to tell anyone, when she doesn’t even know it? And I’m not sure if I ever want her to know!” The thief frowns thunderously, and—no. Just, no; Bilbo will not be judged by some self-righteous, stone-headed Dwarrow. “Don’t you dare give me that look! Can you tell me, in all honesty, that your kind would accept her—a half-Dwarrow, and a bastard no less? Daughter of a hobbit, and without a proper Dwarfish name?” It’s a half-lie that last bit, but Nori doesn’t know that, will never know that, and Bilbo is beyond worrying about lying when it protects his Bella. “Not to mention she wears no braids, and has no beads or family to claim.”

Nori is nonplussed for a moment, and Bilbo takes the opportunity to conclude, “She is better unaware of being found wanting, than to have something beyond her control hanging over her head indefinitely.”

“And if someone else notices?”

The Hobbit snorts. “Doubtful. None of those Ered Luin Dwarves know, and she’s lived and worked beside them for a few years now. Tell me—how did you even guess?”

“The metalworking,” Nori replies softly, hip leaned against the table. “You’ve no metalworkers in the Shire, but suddenly there’s a Hobbit lass in Ered Luin apprenticing under a silversmith? ‘Tis a bit suspicious, Master Burglar.” He’s quiet for a moment before softly probing, “Her eyes, Master Bilbo—they are her mother’s, aye?”

Bilbo chops the potatoes and slides them into the pot of water to stall for time. “We have stories in the Shire—literal Faerie stories,” he says softly, staring at the water bubbling and rolling as it boils.

The master thief raises an inquiring brow, but doesn’t say anything.

“One of them,” Bilbo continues, “is centred on the very first Took, Ages ago, back before the Brandybucks and long, long before anything as sinister as the Sackville-Baggins.” Nori huffs a laugh. The Hobbit ignores him. “Now, Took was taller than most of the other Hobbits with a wild streak the size of the Misty Mountains and the stubbornness to match. Most Hobbits, even so long ago, are perfectly content to simply pass their days in their garden and with their family, friends, and neighbours. But, although Master Took had the grandest smial and garden the Shire had ever seen, he could almost never be found at home—always gallivanting off on adventures.”

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree I see,” Nori mutters, and has to duck the potato Bilbo lobs at his head.

“Quiet. As I was saying, Took travelled all over Middle-Earth, befriending peoples of all races, and yet, he always felt as though he was missing something. His life felt unfulfilled. And so he continued to transverse the whole of Middle-Earth—”

Nori interrupts, “Is there any point here, or are you just attempting to distract me from the fact that you didn’t answer my question?”

“Well, excuse me for trying to broach the subject delicately!” Bilbo retorts hotly, one hand on his hip and the other jabbing his knife in the thief’s direction. He throws it back onto the counter because for all his temper he doesn’t wish to actually cause his friend harm. “It’s not like we go shouting it from the rooftops. Why, I quite believe that most of the Shire has wilfully forgotten just how _strange_ us Tooks can be!”

“I thought you were a Baggins.”

Bilbo flaps his hand dismissively. “On my father’s side. Main branch Took on my mother’s side, and I cannot be more thankful for that, even if some days I think I’d be a better Hobbit without it.”

“I don’t think any of us could’ve asked for a better Hobbit on our quest,” Nori replies flippantly, as if Bilbo has never been dangled over battlements, threatened with death and gifted banishment—though, he had been pardoned on the King’s deathbed. Lot of good it’d done him. “I still cannot see any connection to my question though.”

“Took’s spouse, when he finally settled down, was a faerie—a male faerie to be specific.”

The Dwarf takes a moment to digest that, asking cautiously, “And your mother’s line is descended from this pairing?”

“Yes.” Bilbo wonders how such a small word can be such a heavy burden, watching as disbelief washes over Nori’s face, before it smoothes into stunned realization. Neither of them speak as the Hobbit finishes and serves lunch in heavy wooden bowls (like Bilbo would entrust Dwarrows with his good china again), and the Hobbit-hole is silent except for the soft clacking of spoons. Once they finish eating, Bilbo clears the bowls, and begins washing them. Nori scavenges a towel from somewhere, and dries the dishes without prompting. He even puts them away—in all the correct places.

Bilbo retreats to his study afterwards to catch up on his correspondences, and is immensely grateful when Nori decides to settle in the sitting room for a post-meal nap. He just finishes his letter to Arwen, promising that he would be by for Yule, sometime in the next decade, before there’s a knock on the door of his study. The Hobbit scrubs a hand over his face and looks at the clock, grumbling. Two hours isn’t nearly long enough to gather his thoughts, but then Nori probably knows that and has given Bilbo juts enough time to be lulled into a false sense of security. The thief opens the door without so much as a by your leave, and leans against the frame, arms crossed over his chest.

“She’s got a claim to Erebor.”

Bilbo scowls, stabbing his quill into his inkwell. “Erebor has no claim to my daughter. None at all.”

“Bilbo—” Nori starts to object, but the Hobbit spears him with a glare.

“No. Absolutely not. I have seen your version of Dwarfish diplomacy, and what kind of place you lot reserve for a Queen. My Bella is more than likely to behead any suitor paraded in front of her by Dain, and I doubt that will make a good impression on anyone.”

The thief can’t refute that fact, but he insists, “She has a right to that heritage, and the majesty of Durin’s Folk.”

“Majesty?” Bilbo parrots incredulously. “You mean the ‘majesty’ that is three dead Durin’s sons and a grief-mad Durin’s daughter? The majesty of a gold lust that brought a fire drake to Erebor, and that cost three of the Dwarves I loved most their lives?”

Nori winces, as shame-faced as he ever is, but doesn’t argue. A good thing too, since the Hobbit is just about ready to run him off with Sting and send a letter to Dori about his brother needing a sound thumping on the head. He might send a letter to Ori too, just to give Dwalin an excuse to brawl once Nori makes it back to Erebor.

Bilbo takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. Most Hobbits mellow with old age, and for the longest time, he thought that had applied to him as well. But Bella has lit a fire, long buried in a casket of propriety and good reputation, and Bilbo can’t remember the last time he was so open about his opinions and didn’t care one wit about someone else’s opinion. “Perhaps I am being harsh, but I will not risk my daughter. She is all I have left.”

“I understand,” Nori replies softly, and Bilbo thinks about Ori and Dori, and the stories they had shared in the light of a campfire. He thinks about what would’ve happened to Nori if they died, and can’t help but think that he and Nori are more alike than people would assume. It seems almost paradoxical, the gentlehobbit and the Dwarf thief.

“What can you tell me about Dwarf courting traditions?”

The thief’s surprised, but understanding. “Yours was rather haphazard.”

Haphazard doesn’t even begin to describe the disaster of chaos and misunderstanding that had been Bilbo’s whirlwind, failboat romance, if could be called a courtship at all. But he is putting that behind him, and concentrating on his Ghivasha, and he needs to know the nuisances of Dwarfish courtship if he’s going to make sure Bella is courted properly with the respect and care she deserves.

)

Bilbo regrets his decision of asking Nori to tutor him about Dwarfish traditions, since the thief insists on filling the Hobbit’s head with so many details it is liable to implode. Balin would’ve been a much better choice no doubt, but Bilbo wants to keep his daughter as far from Erebor’s politics as he can. Still, by the time Nori leaves for the Ered Luin to continue watching over Bella, the gentlehobbit knows how to judge the quality of most gems and metalwork, and has a list of items that are considered offensive or overly forward if offered as courting gifts. He is aware of the most major dos and don’ts from his own relationship with a Dwarf, so he is dumbfounded and incensed when Bella’s latest letter mentions that Bifi has approached her about starting a courtship.

While Hobbits don’t care one wit about asking permission for courting—their main concern is the final proposal and wedding—Dwarrows are nearly compulsive in their need to have their courtships recognized by their beloved’s family. On the off-chance that the family is against the match, then the Dwarf still does his best to make his intentions known throughout the entire mountain. The fact that Bifi obviously hasn’t thought one lick about Bilbo’s opinions speaks volumes, and the one-time burglar has his bags packed and a pony at the ready before nightfall. Quickly, he pens letter to both Nori and Bella before he sets out for the Ered Luin, making Nori aware that he fully plans on giving Bifi a sound thumping with Sting and informing Bella of his imminent arrival.

As a Dwarf of Erebor and no relation of Bella, Nori doesn’t officially have any right to interrupt the courtship, but Bilbo is well aware that the thief is sneaky enough to sabotage Bifi in increasingly obvious and hysterical ways without getting caught if he so chooses. There is a small chance that by the time Bilbo gets to the Ered Luin, that the courtship will have already crashed and burned, but he isn’t about to take a risk on something as unreliable as chance.

The trip is gruelling, and Bilbo has not missed sleeping on the hard ground, but he makes it to the Dwarfish settlement intact. The guards, somewhat worryingly, are well acquainted with his daughter and, upon recognizing him as a Hobbit with similar colouring, have no trouble pointing Bilbo in the direction of Bella’s small set of journeyman rooms. There’s an unfamiliar Dwarf lurking about when Bilbo arrives, but he matches the description of Bifi close enough that the Hobbit feels absolutely no guilt as he hunches over and purposefully hobbles towards the Dwarf. Probably-Bifi looks down an unfortunately prominent nose at Bilbo, and his lips tighten into an unimpressed and vaguely repulsed line. He doesn’t say a word, though, just stares at the Hobbit. Any positive emotion the aging Hobbit might have harboured for his daughter’s suitor is vanquished by his utter lack of manners.

“Master Dwarf,” Bilbo greets, because _he_ had been raised to be polite, even to the kind of scum that should only be found at the bottom of the most remote cesspools of Middle-Earth.

Bifi grunts back, “Halfling.”

Just for that, the _Hobbit_ —he is not half anything, thank you very much!—decides that when he issues his challenge, it will not be to first blood. “I had hoped for better, you know,” he says, pretending to squint up at the slightly taller Dwarf. Bilbo thinks he might be smaller than even Ori, and that means Bella is likely a few inches taller. Definitely not a good match then. “A nice tall Dwarrow for my lass. Strong too, who could provide for her if need be and love her fiercely.”

The look Bifi slants him is wholly uninterested, and Bilbo takes a moment to wonder how someone as dull and disdainful as this managed to catch his Bella’s eye. She usually has excellent taste, though not in suitors if her future choices run in the same vein. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, but thrice is most definitely a pattern. Bella’s already on two, and they only seem to be getting worse. “But I still have hope. She’s a bright and talented lass. Excellent silversmith, though only a journeyman.”

The young Dwarrow finally seems to catch on that Bilbo’s related to Bella, and looks vaguely worried, though he quickly shakes the expression off in favour of a charming, if slightly oily, smile. It’s meant to be genial, but the Hobbit finds it a sickening caricature. Or that just might be the fact that Bifi doesn’t appear to realize that such a thing as dental hygiene exists. Bilbo is almost tempted to say that a bad taste in suitors runs in the family, but aside from Otho Sackville-Baggins marrying Lobelia and Bilbo’s romance-if-you-squint-and-turn-your-head-upside-down, no one in the family has ever chosen someone of so poor character. Well, that might be a bit unfair to Bella’s _adad_ ; he’d been a good leader and admirable Dwarf, if you ignored his rather aloof and haughty personality and the bit with the gold-sickness.

Bifi opens his mouth, no doubt to endorse himself now that he’s made a bastards of himself, but Bilbo isn’t about to let him have a word in edgewise after the slights he’s been offered. “Thus I have come so that any _proper_ and _honourable_ Dwarf might approach me in person for the right to court my dear lass. You see, as my only daughter and closest kin, Bella is very dear to me, and I will not have her settle for less than she deserves. Which, Master Bifi, includes a conniving weasel such as yourself.”

“Weasel—” the Dwarf sputters, face turning a blotchy red.

“Yes, _weasel_ , and, as Bella’s father and closest relative, I have come to seek the penance I am due as you shamed myself and my daughter for attempting to court her without my knowledge or permission.”

Bifi’s eyes widen and he fumbles for an excuse. “Bella said—”

“I am quite aware, Master Bifi,” Bilbo cuts in shortly, “of what she might have said of Hobbit courtship, but that does not excuse _you_ from your own traditions. And I may be a Hobbit, far from home, but I prepared for the possibility that my daughter might one day catch the eye of a Dwarf. I know of your traditions, and know that any sincere and respectable Dwarf would staunchly refuse to court to a standard lower than the one set forth by their forefathers.” Which is not, necessarily,the complete truth, but, well, Bilbo’s Dwarf had been a dunderhead, and no one had honestly expected them to survive that mad quest until Smaug was dead. That was of course when everything went to hell, but Bilbo is not thinking about that. Nope. He’s focusing on the current object of his ire.

The Dwarrow shifted uneasily, his face turned away in guilt more than in shame, and Bilbo takes a moment to imagine running him through with Sting. He dismisses the image almost immediately, because while he will propose the duel to be beyond first blood, it will not earn him much goodwill to actually _slay_ Bifi. That, and the Hobbit wishes for the Dwarf to dwell in his shame for the rest of his days.

“I suggest taking your leave now, Master Dwarf. My daughter will not be very welcoming when she learns of your slight against her honour, and I will not issue my challenge until the morning.” Bilbo casts a sideways glance at the rather pale Dwarf. “I do hope that’s enough time to prepare yourself for a little old Hobbit such as me.”

“More than enough, Halfling,” Bifi sneers, which might’ve been intimidating if he isn’t checking over his shoulder to make sure Bella’s not about to overhear anything. “Not like that beardless brat is worth much effort.”

Bilbo hums noncommittally, affecting indifference as the Dwarf marches away. His expression barely has time to sour before Nori appears at his elbow and says dryly, “Charming fellow.”

“I’m sure he’ll be much more charming on his arse,” the Hobbit mutters, and Nori’s answering grin is as sharp as his daggers, dripping in veiled venom. “We’re not fighting to the death though.”

The thief shrugs. Bilbo is not the least bit reassured, making a note to keep an eye on him as much as possible. He would rather not be thrown unceremoniously out of the Ered Luin, and Bella would not be pleased if the Dwarrows decide to toss her out as well.

He pushes those dismal thoughts aside, though, as he catches sight of bright honey-gold curls and pointed ears accented by silver earcuffs, denoting the wearer’s status as a journeyman silversmith who had trained under Rolir, son of Dolir. Bella has a basket over one arm filled to the brim with food, while the other tucks a small Dwarfish braid (one of the few Bilbo had taught her, thankfully) behind her ear. She stops dead when she spots them, today’s blue-grey eyes wide as lakes. Before either Bilbo or Nori can blink, Bella has crossed to Bilbo’s side and starts fidgeting as she examines every inch of him.

“I just got your letter this morning,” she murmurs, casting Nori a sideways glance before turning her full attention back to Bilbo. “I didn’t expect you to arrive for a fortnight! Why, I’ve no idea why you’ve even decided to come all this way. You _despise_ travelling of any kind, and I know for a fact that it rained recently and you hate travelling in rain more than the Sackville-Baggins trying to steal our spoons."

“I’m fine.”

Bella gives him a sceptical look that Bilbo has seen many times in the mirror, and Nori must agree because he smiles fondly, before turning to melt into the shadows. (Bilbo really needs to learn how he does that, especially if Bella is going to get any more suitors, which she absolutely will, because she is beautiful and golden and talented, and Dwarrows like their women with spirit, especially ones that know how to use an axe.)

Bilbo watches amusedly as Bella turns to where the thief had just been, only to startle once she notices he’s no longer there. She glances back at her father wide eyed, and the Hobbit puts on his best innocent expression (not dissimilar to the bemused one he put on whenever someone tries to ask about the Company). “What?”

“I will learn all your secrets one day,” Bella says, annoyed. “You can’t hide them forever.”

And yet his dearest secret is in plain sight, clad in well-worn leather breeches and a loose, deep cobalt Dwarfish tunic with white embroidery around the neckline, hems, and sleeves. She is radiant in the colours of her forefathers, gold hair a bright and obvious contrast that garners envious glances from every Dwarrow who sees it. Bilbo wishes he could keep her tucked away safe in Bag End, but he more than anyone else realizes that she has more in common with his mother than just her name. Bella would be miserable without her craft and her Dwarrow friends and the wonder she finds in living in a mountain.

So instead of grabbing her and high-tailing it back to the Shire, Bilbo follows his daughter up a flight of stairs to her small set of rooms. They are nothing compared to the vast, sprawling layout of Bag End, but Bilbo can see the touches of home Bella has added to the sitting room immediately. The first and only afghan Bella had knitted under Bilbo’s watchful eyes is thrown over the back of a small sofa, and there are sketches of her friends and family spread across the fireplace’s mantel. Bilbo is surprised to see that the one of Lord Elrond and Lady Arwen has survived so long in a Dwarfish settlement. One of Bilbo’s embroidered cushions is tucked between the arm and back of the sofa, next to a collection of books with no writing on their covers. Bilbo has no doubt they’re either pilfered from Lord Elrond’s library or copies one of the librarians had been kind enough to make her. Leaned against the far corner is the bow and quiver that Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, had commissioned for Bella’s 30th birthday. The Elvish prince had been captivated the first time he’d met Bella while travelling with a diplomatic envoy to Rivendell, and has been attempting to convince Bella to live among Elves ever since.

Legolas is currently sulking at the injustice that Bella prefers Dwarfish company, if his latest letter to Bilbo is anything to go by, and, well, Bilbo isn’t very fond of Mirkwood Elves for reasons he would very much like to forget and takes great pleasure in any displeasure caused to the blonde princeling.

Bella sets her basket down on a small table in the tiny kitchen off of the sitting room, before plucking Bilbo’s meagre luggage from his back and carrying it towards the single bedroom. “I’m perfectly fine on the sofa you know,” he objects mildly.

“And I’m sure your back will thank you for that in the morning, I truly am, but you’re taking the bed.”

“Buttering me up, I see,” Bilbo comments dtyly as he peruses Bella’s shopping. “I assume you want me to look fondly upon that Dwarrow you mentioned—Loifur, wasn’t?”

His daughter’s indignant yell of “Da!” is perfectly clear, even through stone walls. Bilbo chuffs to himself, and is trying to decide what to make while Bella is changing the sheets on the bed when his fiery little Ghivasha stomps in and shoves his mithril shirt under his nose.

“Ah,” Bilbo says. He has been hoping quite a bit that she wouldn’t find that tucked away in his bag, but apparently he hadn’t stuffed in down far enough.

“’Ah?’” Bella parrots back. “You never wear this. Even when we travelled to the Shire from Rivendell that first time, this was at the bottom of a trunk. So why did you feel the need to bring it with you all the way here, where you know it’s safe? The Dwarrows are perfectly friendly, Da. There is no danger here.”

With a noncommittal hum, the Hobbit turns back to inspecting his daughter’s vegetables, making a displeased noise as he finds them all beneath the quality found in Rivendell, let alone the Shire. Bella smacks him in the head with the mithril shirt, making Bilbo yelp.

“That was uncalled for, young lady!”

She whacks him again, and keeps hitting him until Bilbo finally relents. “It’s for the honour challenge tomorrow.”

“Honour challenge?” Bella asks, pausing in her assault. Her face scrunches in bewilderment. “Why in Eru’s name would you be participating in an honour challenge? You have not been here long enough to offend anyone, and I’ve offended no one.”

Bilbo has wanted to avoid this conversation since the moment he knew it will be necessary. “It is not us who have dealt a slight, my dear girl.”

Bella blinks at him, then gapes wordlessly. “You’ve been here less than two hours! You can’t have honestly found something so upsetting that you’ve taken a grievous enough offense to issue an honour challenge!”

“It was actually a bit before I got here,” Bilbo admits, trying not to sound sheepish. He is a grown hobbit for Eru’s sake, and this is his daughter, not his mother.

“Before you—but you’ve never been here before! And you don’t know anyone yet.” Her face darkens for a moment, as some thought occurs to her. “Was it that Dwarf out front? The one with the fancy braids going every which way? You should’ve told me if someone was bothering you!”

Bilbo sputters, even as his heart warms knowing that his daughter worries for him despite being so far away. “Heavens, no! Nori’s an old friend from Erebor.”

“But, you _hate_ Erebor.”

He doesn’t, not one bit, despite all the grief that stupid city has caused him because of that King of Stupid Under the Mountain, but he wants to put off that particular conversation even more than this one, so Bilbo ignores it and cuts directly to the difficult part of the conversation. “Bifi. I issued an honour challenge to Bifi.”

Bella looks honestly surprised and confused and more vulnerable than she has in decades, and it breaks his heart just a little that he has to do this to her.

“Bifi?” she repeats, sounding like a small, innocent child again, hopelessly confused by all the wrong and evil in the world. “But he hasn’t done a thing! Why, he’s been a perfect gentleman, and always brings me flowers, though he never does it when anyone else can see because he’s embarrassed, like how some of the boys in the Shire get.”

“But he’s not like the boys in the Shire, Bella,” Bilbo says quietly, gently gathering his daughter in his arms. She resists for a moment, before allowing the embrace but makes no move to return it. “He’s a Dwarf—he has very specific traditions that he would follow, or try to follow, circumstances and Shire tradition be damned. The fact that he hasn’t even mentioned them, and seems more than comfortable with the Shire standards—it’s not a serious courting in the least. And I will not stand for any Hobbit, Dwarf, Man, or Elf disrespecting you in anyway. You are my Ghivasha, my treasure of treasures.” He buries his nose in her shoulder as the top of her head has been too high to reach since she was thirty and whispers, “You are all I have left.”

She is quiet for a long moment before she says softly, “This Nori—he’s the thief from your stories, isn’t he? The ones with the King Under the Mountain and the dragon.”

“He is.”

“You had him spying on Bifi.”

Bilbo thinks of denying it for a moment, but his daughter was half-raised by Elves, and he must tread carefully. “I wanted to make sure his intentions were worthy of you, and they were not. To let him continue on as he has been doing would be shameful, and to do it quietly would not reflect well on us in the eyes of the Dwarrows.”

“I only told you of his intentions a fortnight ago, perhaps a little longer.”

“I am apt at reading emotions in your letters, Bella,” Bilbo reminds her, reluctantly releasing her since too much affection makes her antsy. “And your first mention betrayed your interest in that Dwarf, quiet though it was.”

She nods once, absently, and goes to sit in the sitting room as Bilbo continues to putter about the tiny kitchen. He doesn’t mind: Bella needs time to decide if she agrees with him, and, if she does, what her next course of action is. She is level-headed, open to new ideas, and never gives a thought less attention than it deserves. Bilbo has absolutely no idea how that happened because she certainly doesn’t get it from him or her sire, and he blames the Elves because that is the only thing that makes something resembling sense.

So Bilbo does what a worrying Hobbit does best: he cooks. He finds his daughter’s paring knife, and starts peeling potatoes, before cutting them into fine strips to make hash browns. The Hobbit fries some bacon in a skillet first before cooking the hash browns in the leftover grease, raiding Bella’s spice rack for just the right seasonings. He plates the hot food once he’s done, and places it to the side before finding where his daughter has squirreled away her flour. He whisks together pancake batter soon enough, and has made his ways through half the bowl before Bella’s soft footsteps come from the sitting room.

She waits until Bilbo has finished the pancakes, stacking them high on a plate he liberates from a cupboard, and started the washing up before she says, “How did you know he wasn’t following tradition?”

“Nori,” he answers honestly. “And the fact that he started courting you before he asked my permission. I realize,” he says, seeing Bella’s thunderous frown, “that you are a grown woman who is perfectly capable of making her own decision. However, Dwarf tradition dictates that a Dwarf at least announce his intentions to the family head of the object of his affections so that his love might be known, and irrefutable. And even if tradition doesn’t demand it, most Dwarrows feel an almost compulsive need to have their suit recognized.”

Bella’s face crumples around the edges, but keeps her chin firmly rise, defiant in the face of betrayal and loss. “He asked me not to tell Bolin and Tesil. I never thought to ask why, figured it was either embarrassment or a Dwarf thing, but I suppose it makes sense now.” She chuckles humourlessly. “I doubt he could’ve expected you to be so well versed in Dwarfish courting.”

“Yes, well, he would’ve been right if I hadn’t been a pessimist of the highest order.”

She grins, just a little. It’s not the bright, sunny grins she favours, but it’s enough for Bilbo to know that in a few years, they’ll be able to look back on this moment and mock Bifi endlessly. (And, if Bilbo is lucky, set Legolas and Arwen on the bloody weasel. His greatest achievement, besides raising his daughter as best he could, is having an Elvish Prince and an Elvish Lady as the godparents of his only child.) Bilbo pulls Bella into a hug, paying no mind to her half-hearted protests, and only lets her go after she reminds him that there’s food waiting for them.

It’s hours later when they’re both curled on the sofa in front of the fireplace and Bilbo has finished recounting what’s happened in the Shire since Bella’s been away, that Bella lays her head on his shoulder and whispers into his neck, “I don’t want you to fight tomorrow.”

Bilbo strokes her hair comfortingly. “I’ll be fine, Bella. Killing me would be bad form, seeing as I’m smaller and frailer. Not to mention that my mithril shirt has weathered me through worse than a little swordplay.”

“How much of your stories are true?” she asks, worry creasing her brow.

 _All of it and more_ , Bilbo doesn’t say. He presses a kiss to her hair, plucks the top book on the pile beside the couch, and begins to read aloud about the Elves of the First Age.

)

Bilbo thanks Eru when he wakes early in the morning on the sofa (which he stubbornly took despite his daughter’s objections) that his joints do not ache fiercely as he stands and stretches. Bella isn’t awake yet, which isn’t much a surprise since Dwarrows are naturally late risers when in plenty, and Hobbits always rise with the sun which is virtually undetectably this far into the mountain. The Hobbit digs a thin linen shirt out of his pack, as well as his mithril shirt, comfortable trousers, a heavier cotton shirt, and his least favourite waistcoat—a drab gray paisley print that had been pressed onto him by some well-meaning relative. He dons his clothes slowly and with care. The mithril shirt is heavier than he remembers, but that’s hardly surprising since he hasn’t worn it in over thirty years. Sting and its sheath are a comforting weight around his waist, and it’s that weight that gives Bilbo the courage to braid his hair for the first time since Bella outgrew playing with his hair. About thirty years than, give or take.

It’s a short, small braid that runs from his temple down behind his ear, and his hands tremble when he clasps the end. The bead is gold, stark against his greying hair and engraved with runes he knows are Khuzdul, but doesn’t know the meaning of. The sight of it in the mirror nearly breaks his resolve, but then he looks around Bella’s homely space and knows that he can’t do it any other way. Bella’s sire has as much right to be in the coming fight as Bilbo does, even if it’s only as the ghost of memory untold.

He peeks in on Bella, and kisses her forehead, just in case. On the way out the door, Bilbo mutters a prayer to Yavanna and Mahal that this will end well for Bella. He’s long since given up on praying for himself.

It takes the Hobbit two hours to find the battlegrounds, and another half hour to convince the Dwarrows in charge that he’s not actually some kind of odd looking child, and that _yes_ , he _does_ know what an honour challenge entails and _yes,_ he _does_ want to issue one. These same Dwarves also take the opportunity to insult Sting, repeatedly, but Bilbo lets it go because they don’t know any better and he doesn’t really feel like enlightening them at the moment. His braid is eyed curiously as well, but none of the Dwarrows comment on it.

Still, Bilbo climbs his way on to the platform at the far side of the battlegrounds, and is quite amused when the entire arena goes silent within a few minutes. He’s more than prepared to do this the proper, Dwarfish way; has even memorized the Common translations of the formal Khuzdul and prepared a very long list of grievances—but then he sees Bifi trying to slink off, as though not being in attendance of the formal challenge will somehow negate it. Which it might, since Bilbo’s a Hobbit and these Ered Luin Dwarrows are uncaring about Hobbits at best.

And, well, Bilbo’s a Baggins as much as he is a Took, and Baggins do not take well to poor manners and slights.

“Bifi, son of Lofi, don’t you dare try to scurry off before I even start!”

The Dwarf freezes as every eye turned towards him, and he straights immediately, turning his nose up haughtily, replying, “I was doing no such thing. As though I would be intimidated by a _Halfling_ of all things.”

Bilbo snorts. “Oh, yes, because you wouldn’t be running like a scared little rabbit if it was my daughter up on this pulpit.”

The answering silence is damning, and Bilbo is a bit smug. “Bifi, son of Lofi, for the slight against my daughter Bella and the Clan of Baggins, I challenge your honour.” The Dwarves gathered at the battlegrounds break into hushed chatter immediately, waiting for Bifi’s reply, but, before it can get too loud, Bilbo adds, “I believe until yielding would be appropriate.”

Almost as one being, every single Dwarrow as far as the eye can see turns bodily to stare in disbelief and horror at the stout little Hobbit. Even Bifi looks like Bella has hit him upside the head with a frying pan. (Handy weapons frying pans, especially with hard-headed Dwarves.) Bilbo pays them no mind as he descends back into the dust and grime, boldly walking up to the Dwarf he has just challenged to a battle of skill and stamina. While the Hobbit isn’t as fit as he used to be, he’s kept up his sword exercises to occupy the abundance of time he discovered in Bella’s absence, and is much quicker than the average Dwarf.

If not for his mithril shirt, Bilbo might’ve even said this is going to be a close fight. But even the best Dwarfish blade cannot cut through his armour, and Bilbo will not concede, even though the reason for the challenge may not truly be worth a life.

“Do you accept?” he asks Bifi. Bilbo sincerely doubts Bifi will refuse with the spectacle they’ve already made, even if he believes that pushing Bilbo to yield will make him appear less honourable than he already seems.

Bifi sneers, but nods, and the Dwarf and Hobbit are ushered into one of the rings as the numerous Dwarrows present crowd around for the spectacle. Honour challenges are rare amongst Dwarves, and Bilbo wouldn’t be surprised if this was the first interracial honour challenge ever issued without a Dwarf challenger. Bifi has not brought a sword with him, but the crowd isn’t about to let him loose without someone being named victor so one of the Dwarves gives him a sword. Bilbo can tell when Bifi hefts it that the sword is heavier than he’s used to, meaning his movement will be slower and slightly clumsier than normal.

While all Dwarrows are trained to use basic weapons, the Hobbit has no doubt that he’s used a sword more than Bifi has, even though Bifi is quite possibly twice Bilbo’s age. It’s also unlikely that the Dwarf has ever used a sword outside of a practice, while Bilbo’s hands are stained red out of survive.

It’s not a fair fight in the least, but Bilbo has stopped feeling guilty about the things he’s done for his daughter decades ago. It worries him sometimes, how amoral he can be. That there isn’t a thing in the world he wouldn’t do to keep his daughter safe and, if possible, happy. Even if it meant setting the world on fire and watching it burn.

Bilbo draws Sting, and holds it in ready position nearly parallel to the line of his sternum as he waits for Bifi to take his stance. Once he does, one of the referees—tall, imposing, heavily muscled and tattooed with a long, impressive beard —steeps into the fringes of the ring. There’s not much for the referee to do since the fight is until first yield, but he raises his left hand in an obvious sign to hold. Once he’s certain of Bilbo and Bifi’s attention, his booming voice starts a countdown in Khuzdul, starting at five, and the crowd joins in as his hand starts to lower.

 _Mabakh_ is echoed by nearly ever Dwarf gathered as the referee’s hand drops finally.

Bilbo wastes no time as he charges Bifi, swiping his sword towards the Dwarf’s head and sweeping his leg at the Dwarf’s as Bifi ducks. He stumbles back, nearly dropping the sword as several members of the crowd hoot, holler, and shout encouragements in both Common and Khuzdul. Bilbo pays them no mind and attacks viciously as Bifi gets his bearings and begins parrying and attempts a few stabs of his own. The attacks go wide without Bilbo even trying to dodge, and the Hobbit manages to give Bifi a good long slice along his left side, though not deep enough to be life-threatening just yet. The Dwarrow staggers just out of reach, chest heaving already, and Bilbo’s barely broken a sweat.

He doesn’t expect much from the fight, but he expected better than _this_.

Bifi looks like a cornered rat, eyes darting every which way and shaking just a little, and Bilbo almost feels sorry for him, but, really, the Dwarf should’ve been smart enough not to start something he knows is going to get him in trouble, one way or another. He doesn’t ask the Dwarf to yield just yet, mostly to allow his opponent time to salvage some small scrap of dignity, and because Bilbo isn’t done with him quite yet.

Eventually, the crowd starts yelling abuse at Bifi, calling him everything from a coward to slurs that would be more at home in a dungeon or towards orcs and goblins, and the jeering is enough to inspire Bifi into a charge. Bilbo anticipates an overhead swing and moves to block, only to have the Dwarf twist his arm to the side at the last moment and swing with a slight downwards arc across the Hobbit’s midsection. The momentum tries to make him turn, but Bilbo digs in his feet and bashes the flat side of his sword against Bifi’s head in retaliation. The hard knock sends the Dwarf reeling back, giving Bilbo the opportunity to make a matching slash on Bifi’s right side. He howls, swaying for a moment before his knees buckle.

“Yield,” he pants, clutching at the long tears and red-stains on his tunic. “I yield!”

The referee immediately moves to stand between Bilbo and Bifi, yelling for someone to get a stretcher and a healer, but Bilbo is satisfied with his victory and isn’t about to strike a Dwarf, no matter how cowardly, when he’s obviously beaten. As Bifi is carted off to the infirmary, Bilbo shucks his heavy outer shirt and waistcoat, using the ruins to clean the blood of Sting before sheathing the sword at his hip. The crowd is eerily silent, except for quiet murmurs and stunned glances at his mithril shirt. Bilbo hasn’t actually planned on revealing that he is in the possession of mithril, but it isn’t like he was particularly _trying_ to hide that fact either.

Bilbo raises his eyebrows at the crowd, silently daring any one of the Dwarrows to find some fault with him or his victory over one of their own. No one steps forward or speaks up, so Bilbo makes his way to the edge of the ring. The crowd parts readily for him, and most avoid looking directly at him, as if making eye contact would provoke him to attack, as if he were some sort of wild animal. There’s a younger Dwarrow off to one side, who looks to be about the same age of Bifi and whose expression is a mixture of awe, vindictive satisfaction, and not a small bit of wariness. Bilbo can’t get a good look since he is heading the opposite way, but he thinks he can make out an earcuff that marks the lad as a journeyman goldsmith.

Bilbo would bet Sting that the Dwarrow is Loifur, and he’d been more than prepared to give Bifi the beating he deserved if the old Hobbit hadn’t been able to manage.

He wonders how long it will take to sway Bella’s affections towards Loifur, then chuckles because for all she proclaims her disdain, it’s obvious that _something_ about the lad had sparked her interest into a hearty flame at some point and, well, Bilbo knows a thing or two about turning antagonism into something much more positive and beneficial.

Perhaps his stay in Ered Luin wouldn’t be so short after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I do plan on continuing this at some point, but for now it's marked as completely because I haven't decided whether to continue it with an additional chapter or an additional oneshot.


End file.
